Magi Origins
by HAQ
Summary: The origins of mages are irrelevant in the eyes of the Chantry; nobleman, thief, dalish, or otherwise, if you are cursed with the gift of magic, your freedom is forfeit. Eira Surana, an unwilling apprentice of the Circle, quickly makes it her mission to cramp the Templars' iron grip over her. Jowan, Anders, and Wynne soon find themselves hopelessly caught up in her devious schemes.


_Author's Note: Hello to you all, it's lovely to have you over in my electronic corner!_

_This story explores the events prior to the Dragon Age Origins Circle of Magi Origin—that is, my take on what life might be like for our young mage wardens in the Circle, including their arrival, lessons and studies, escape attempts, and (sometimes non-canon) relationships with characters like Irving, Jowan, Anders and Wynne. It will be told through the eyes of my OC warden, Eira Surana, an arrogant, clever, fiercely independent character whose tongue is always ready with a joke, lie or flirt._

_I'll likely continue on to the events of the game, but I'm writing this arc specifically to give more insight into my warden and the lesser-explored characters of Jowan, Irving etc, as well as the dynamics of the Circle itself, which I find simply fascinating._

_Rated M for mature themes/dalliances/violence (mostly in future chapters)—I will post any and all warnings in the Author's Notes at the beginning of each chapter._

_So there you have it. I would love any feedback, advice, or criticisms—but mostly, I simply hope you enjoy._

_Happy reading!_

* * *

_**Magi Origins**_

_**Chapter I:**_

Against a backdrop of thunder and lightning, heavy rain pelted against the tower walls; an angry lullaby to a few hundred dreaming mages. A pair of heavy doors shifted, sending echoes of a loud clang through the cold halls. The giant barricades swept open, unleashing thunderous clatters and scratches that were indistinguishable against the storm's cacophony. And yet, the sound shook a few slumbering bodies towards wakefulness; so attuned to the sound of their prison gate were they, it was as if they could sense its opening.

And then, a piercing scream ripped them entirely from their slumber. Eyes flew open and cold feet of varying sizes hit the floor. The youngest were first to scramble from their beds to the doors of the dormitories and poke their heads out into the long hall, among them a small, dark-haired boy: Jowan.

The pairs of curious eyes glanced about for the source of the noise, some murmuring to each other, and some holding their breath. The door at the rear end of the hall burst open, and fearful eyes turned sharply to see who was coming through it.

An old man came striding down the hall, with long, greying hair and flowing robes that swept behind him. The candle in his hand illuminated his wizened face and grim expression.

"Return to your rooms at once," boomed the First Enchanter, sending some young, peeping heads shrinking back into their rooms.

When the First Enchanter neared him, Jowan peeked his head out further and squeaked, "Sir... is it... an abomination?"

The First Enchanter afforded him a quick, stoic glance before turning away and continuing onward. Now approaching the door to the entrance room, Irving reached for the door's handle. But another piercing cry stilled his hand. After the initial shock wore off, he licked his lips and turned to the anxious apprentices still watching him.

"Return to your rooms, children," he repeated, though more gently this time. "This matter will be taken care of." After that, he opened the door.

The sounds of a struggle reached him instantly, and he quickly shut the door behind him, blocking the naive, curious eyes out. The few candles that had been lit about the room glowed feebly, and in the dim light, Irving could barely make out the outline of a few sets of Templar armour, crowded around a central figure.

"Get the dagger—"

"Hold her down!"

"Get off! Get _off me_!"

"The vial, I need the vial!"

"Would someone get the—"

"_Let me go_!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Irving demanded, striding towards them. One Templar looked up and rose to his feet, but the remainder continued to work on detaining the small figure.

"First Enchanter," the Templar greeted respectfully, walking over. "The Bannorn sent for us. They found this child in a village East of Denerim and locked her in the nearby Chantry, but the damn girl started destroying the place. By the time we got there, the interior was a mix of earth and rubble. We feared she had turned abomination, but—"

"Yes, a fool could have gathered that this is a new arrival," Irving interrupted quickly, "but what is the meaning of this dramatic entrance? Your scuffle has awoken half of my apprentices—how difficult is it to welcome _one child_ to our Circle? And in the dead of night?"

At that moment, the struggling child pulled a leg free and launched a foot at a nearby body. When it connected with hard, steely armour, she howled.

"Welcome? She _defiled_ a Chantry, and it's not as if she came voluntarily!" the Templar replied defensively. "Fought us with every step, and she's a squirmy little bastard. We're trying to calm her down so that we can take blood for the phylac—"

"Calm her down?" Irving repeated as the sounds of scrapes and thuds continued. "This is _not_ calming her down. She is a _child_—"

"What were we supposed to do? Maker, we should have kept the ropes on her. Would've made it easier," continued the Templar. Quietly, he added, "Or just killed her..."

"Now, really!" Irving cried. "Must this be done now? We can organise her phylactery tomorrow, when she is settled and we can confirm—"

"That she's one of you? Oh, she's definitely a damn mage. I saw her _tricks_ with my own eyes. She's dangerous; we can't take any chances. This has to be done now."

The young elf cried out as the Templars were finally able to pin her down.

"No, please! Don't hurt—" but the rest of her words were drowned out by her own screaming as an uncaring slit was made in her arm.

"Maker's breath," Irving spat, walking closer to the group. The phylactery vial glinted as it lapped up the girl's blood from her still-struggling arm. When the vial was full and capped, the Templars began to dismantle.

"Get off of her!" Irving insisted, kneeling next to the girl. Her fists were bloodied, and her clothes were torn and covered with dirt. Even in the dim light, he could make out her dark skin and short curly hair, askew and flowing over her pointed ears. "Are you al—"

But the girl was up in an instant, slapping a hand over her bleeding arm and running towards the door. Irving sighed and rose to his feet as the young elf fiddled with the intricate lock mechanism and grunted and sobbed in anguish when her attempts proved ineffective. The group of Templars faded back into the darkness, having accomplished their task, but Irving knew they were still watching, waiting.

Slowly, the girl calmed, and turned back to him in resignation. It was only then that Irving took a step towards her and said gently, "Come, child. Let me take a look at your wound."

"No!" the girl shouted defiantly, her hands returning to grip the locks of the door. She looked to be about eleven or twelve; older than most of the children that arrived at the Circle. And the look on her face was so fierce, she looked further still beyond her years. "I won't go with you! Let me out!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Irving said, honestly. "Your place is here now."

"My place is at home!" the girl shouted.

Irving folded his hands together. "What is your name, child?"

The girl visibly calmed in surprise. Her hands fell from the lock, and she turned her body to face him, almost proudly. "Eira."

"Eira," Irving repeated. "I am First Enchanter Irving. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Eira's childish brows knitted, but she said nothing.

"Why don't you let me take a look at your arm, Eira?"

"No!" she cried, clutching her arm protectively. "You're going to hurt me again! I know about you—men with masks and burning swords that suck away magic—I'm not going with you! You can't make me!"

Irving held out his hands in a sign of peace. "I'm not going to hurt you, Eira."

"I don't believe you."

"Then I will prove it. You may not think it, looking at me now, but I used to be a child, like you," Irving said with a small smile, trying to appeal to her sense of humour. Eira just stared back at him with stormy eyes.

Irving cleared his throat and shifted his weight. "And there was a time when I was standing at those doors, just as you are now. I know how you must feel. Alone, cold, tired, and hungry," he continued. Eira's gaze had softened, and a look of deliberation crossed her face as she considered Irving's words.

She could feel the vigilant glare of the men that had detained her; their watchful gaze burned. They were waiting to see if she would attack again, she realised.

"I am not like these men, my child," Irving insisted, as if reading her mind. Eira scoffed, but when a bright light appeared in Irving's hand, her eyes widened.

"You see, Eira, I am a mage, just like you. And I promise you," he continued, as he had a hundred times before. A promise, a mantra, a lie. "I will not let them hurt you again. You will be safe here."

* * *

"Irving—I have a problem."

Irving looked up from his desk, which was currently a mixture of neatly stacked books on one side, and messy scrolls on the other. Senior Enchanter Sweeney was standing red-faced and panting in his doorway.

"What sort of problem?" he asked, wiping his quill against a dark-stained and once-blue cloth before lowering it onto his desk.

"That new arrival—the elf girl," replied Senior Enchanter Sweeney. "She's interrupting my class! She won't abide by any of our rules, she refuses to wear proper attire, she is disobedient and insolent, and she's proving to be a huge distraction to apprentices who actually _wish_ to learn. She's embarrassing me in front of my students, Irving!"

Irving held up his hand. "I understand, Sweeney, but what am I to do? I am not responsible for tutoring the young apprentices. Come now, she cannot be _that_ much trouble."

Sweeney's tone was growing as irritable as his cheeks were red. "I assure you, she _is_. I have tried everything. Please—you have always had a talent for connecting with delinquents. _Help me_."

Irving sighed. He knew very well that Sweeney was incapable of dealing with any student who so much as sneezed out of place. He was a nervous, unexceptional sort of man who abhorred anything he was unfamiliar with. He was ill-qualified to deal with any sort of rebelliousness; the poor fellow just had no idea how to handle it, and too often, those rebels knew it.

"Alright, Sweeney. I will help you if I can."

"Thank you, First Enchanter," Sweeney replied earnestly. "Right this way."

* * *

"The Templars had me completely surrounded. My back was against the wall, with no chance of escape. One of the brutes approached me, hand on the hilt of his sword..."

The crowd shuffled together and murmured expectantly.

"He pulled the blade from its sheathe, then pointed the thing right at me," continued the storyteller, acting out the scene, raising an imaginary blade to her throat while a curious glowing wisp circled around her hand. "It was so close that I could feel the tip against my neck. And then, the fool had the nerve to utter, 'You're coming with me, elf!'"

Irving and Sweeney rounded the corner just as the crowd drew in their breath. Irving eyed the spectacle; a group of about twelve apprentices gathered around a dark-skinned elf, standing on a table. He barely recognised her as the terrified child who had arrived a few nights ago, for now she stood confidently, proudly, and moved as if she could not sit still. The wisp accentuated all of her actions, circled her head during a serious pause in the story, then her hands when the action began.

_What a curious use of magic_, Irving thought.

He could not place her ethnicity; dark skin that pointed to foreign lands, a pair of hazel eyes, honeyed highlights running through her brown curls. And when she spoke, a Dalish accent.

"And that was when I smiled, and said, 'liar, liar, pants on fire!'" Eira continued, laughing at the joke she had yet to explain while the wisp jittered in place, as if it were giggling. "He sneered at me, but it wasn't long before he started... feeling the heat. And when he finally looked down, and saw the _fire_ starting to spread, I nearly killed myself laughing right then and there. I couldn't see his face, but I could hear his screaming well enough."

This led to a chorus of 'Whoa!' and 'I can't believe it!' and then, 'What about the other Templars?'

"The other Templars?" Eira repeated, scoffing. Irving continued to watch with folded arms. "_Ha_! All I know is, only a mere twenty heartbeats later, the whole damn _Chantry_ was up in smokes. The Templars didn't know what hit them!"

"Tell me, then," Irving said, taking the moment to interrupt. The shocked crowd all turned their heads, and upon identifying Irving, thrust their hands in their pockets and looked down at their shoes sheepishly. "If you had no trouble dispatching these 'Templar assailants', then how is it they managed to detain you, and bring you here?"

Eira looked over at him, but instead of recoiling in fear—as some of the other apprentices were—the young elf grinned mischievously. Her strangely life-like wisp faltered only for a moment, before it resumed its circling rhythms overhead.

"Well, that's the best part," Eira replied, unphased by Irving's superior eloquence. The First Enchanter noticed that, although they were clean now, Eira was still wearing the same torn clothes she had arrived in. She looked so out of place against the students dressed in identical, long blue robes, and the backdrop of orderly bookshelves and desks.

"See," she continued, turning back to her adoring crowd with a theatrical wave of her arms, "That bunch was easy to deal with, and I escaped the place with barely a scratch on me. It was only when I got outside that things really started to get interesting. See, waiting for me was a whole—"

Seeing that his previous comment had not stunned her into silence as he expected, Irving interrupted once more.

"Thank you, that is quite enough," he said, his voice filling the dusty hallway and making the apprentices stand to attention. He made his way towards the crowd, and in a gruff voice, said, "Don't you all have _work_ to do?"

The apprentices started buzzing with excuses, bumping into each other, trying to get away. Soon enough, they had cleared, and all that was left was Eira, still standing atop the table with an impudent look on her face.

"What was that?" she said to Irving, spreading her arms wide. "It's going to kill them not knowing the climax."

Sweeney's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "How dare you disrespect the First En—"

"It's alright, Sweeney," Irving replied softly, turning to eye his associate, before looking back up at Eira.

"You're right," Eira said, placing her hands on her hips and smiling. "Always keep the crowd wanting more, right?"

A strange smile reached Irving's lips but, as Eira noticed, it seemed to be more amusement at a joke of his own than what she'd said.

Irving held out his hand, beckoning her down from her perch atop the table. "Come with me, child."

"Hey, I didn't do anything wrong," she protested. "They asked—"

"Come."

Eira blinked and toyed with the idea of disobeying, but in the end decided to comply. She opened her hand and the wisp flew into it, drawn like a magnet, and was crushed into nothingness when she clasped her hand tightly.

As she approached them, Eira met Sweeney's sneer with a smile.

"What's wrong, Sweener?" she asked innocently. "Did I steal your show?"

Sweeney's face puffed up in anger. "Why, you impudent little—" he began, but as quick as a whip she interrupted him.

"You know, I'd watch that sneer if I were you. The wind might change, and you'll be stuck with that face."

Sweeney's resulting look of aggravation was one she would cherish, but before he could open his mouth and launch an angry tirade, Irving interrupted.

"I will handle the situation from here, Sweeney."

Sweeney sputtered, but nodded his head. "Yes. Yes, of course."

"You will be wanting to make up for the time you lost, I'm sure."

"You are quite right," Sweeney replied, and turned to smile graciously at Irving. "You are so very thoughtful to—"

"Oh _Maker_, your _face_!" Eira cried, looking at Sweeney with an expression of horror and concern. "It's even uglier than before! And is that... oh, no! I think I feel the wind changing! Quick, we must save the world from the horror of the Sweener smile!"

And with that, she started blowing on his face.

Sweeney's cheeks grew dangerously red as he leant back and attempted to bat the air away with his hands. "Incorrigible! You unthinking, contemptuous little—"

"That is quite _enough_," Irving said, though he was hiding a small smile. "Come, let us have no more of this childishness. We all have important matters to attend to."

Sweeney glared at them both before turning on his heel and storming away, leaving Eira and Sweeney standing side by side. Any apprentices who had been watching the spectacle returned to work, and a tense silence ensued, complimented by quiet murmuring and the rustling of papers.

And still Irving did not turn to berate her; it was as if he intended to torture Eira with silence. And it was working.

Unable to bare it any longer, Eira said, "Thanks for getting rid of that stick-in-the-mud. He was really ruining my—"

"Eira," Irving interrupted, finally turning to look at her, hands folded together in front of him. "Look around. Tell me what you see."

Eira's brow rose. Irving's tone was soft, but firm, and although he stood over two feet taller than her young self, he did not look imposing. And yet, his knowing demeanor and age commanded a sort of respect.

With an exhalation of concession, Eira followed his instructions and began to survey the room. "Let's see. There's a bunch of books, some tables, some students... some books _on_ the tables, some students _reading_ the books... ugh, is this place always so boring?"

"And what do you see there?" he asked, smiling strangely again and nodding to an unmoving suit of armour that she hadn't noticed.

Eira followed Irving's gaze to the far corner of the room. When she spotted the figure, her jaw set. "A Templar."

"Indeed," Irving replied, then gestured for her to follow him. "Come."

They walked back to his office in complete silence with Eira nearly glaring a hole into the back of Irving's head. As they passed each room, however, she could not stop her eyes from wandering to count the white knights in shining armour. In every corner, in every hall, as still as statues, and easily mistaken for one, the Templars stood watching, and though their visors were down and masking their expressions, she could feel their gaze on her. By the time they finally arrived in Irving's office, she had counted at least thirty of them.

"We are fortunate," Irving told her, walking around to his desk and lowering himself into the seat. The room was large and filled with elaborate items of obvious sentimental value. Framed letters, accolades, foreign artifacts and devices. It was quite an impressive collection, really, and they gave the room a pleasant, homey feel that seemed to be missing in the student's dormitories. And yet, it was simply a prettied up cell surrounded by stony, inescapable walls.

Irving's eyes were staring off into the distance now, and Eira was becoming frustrated with the silence again.

Finally, she said, "Why are we fortunate?"

Irving slowly dragged his eyes to hers. He gave a small smile before rising suddenly and moving towards a small window in his room, where a gentle, cool breeze was able to flow into the room. Eira looked over at him in confusion, and bent her body to get a better look out the window.

"We are fortunate," he said, turning towards her slowly as she quickly righted herself, "because we do not find ourselves in a cruel place. We are not in a false Circle, where terrible men, pretenders of the Chantry, use mages as slaves and toys, locking them away in prison cells, awaiting torture, the Rite of Tranquility, or worse. We are fortunate, because had we been in a more vicious land, you would have been killed for your blasphemy."

Eira snorted. "My blasphemy? What are you talking about?"

"Why, your story," Irving replied, taking a step towards her. "Of how you defeated your would-be kidnappers; the cruel, uncaring Templars."

"They _are_ cruel and uncaring," Eira said, crossing her arms. "Wait. Are you threatening me?"

"Threatening you?" Irving frowned and shook his head. "My dear child, I am _warning_ you. I said we are fortunate to be in a place such as this. Here, mages can live and thrive. Here, you can gain knowledge and power beyond your wildest dreams, and collaborate with some of the greatest minds in Ferelden. But we are still under the authority of the Chantry, and the Templars will do what they must."

"Do what they must? Are you saying they'll kill me for telling a story?"

"I am saying that you must be careful," Irving said, moving back to his desk and sitting down. "You do not want to antagonise the Templars. It will end badly for you."

"I'm not afraid of them," Eira retorted, jutting her chin out defiantly.

Irving smiled. "If I hadn't seen the terror on your face the night you arrived here, I might believe you."

Eira opened her mouth, then looked down and crossed her arms, suddenly unsure of what to say. Her hair fell over her face, and at that moment, she was still, and looked every bit the child that she was.

"I want to go home."

Irving paused for a moment. "That is impossible. If you try and leave now, the Templars will hunt you down."

"I would run somewhere they wouldn't find me."

"Where? Back to your home? Back to your family?"

Eira kept silent. It was common for mages to have parents who also possessed the gift, and perhaps even be apostates themselves; mages living outside of the circle, forever on the run from Templar hunters.

Irving smiled knowingly. "I understand; you wish to protect them."

"You don't know me. You don't know _anything_ about me, or my family," Eira replied angrily.

Irving's smile wavered. "You remember when blood was taken from you when you arrived?"

Eira looked down at the spot on her arm where the cut had been made. Normally, such a wound would have taken weeks to heal, but with the aid of healing magic, it had disappeared within days.

"That blood is now in storage, but as your phylactery, it can be taken out and used as a magical tracking device whenever the Templars please. Many have tried to escape, but the Templars are relentless, and inevitably track down every single one. They would find you, and anyone you lead them to, risking their lives as well as your own. Besides, you have no doubt explored the Tower already, and I am sure you discovered that escape is impossible, unless you're inclined to throw yourself out of a window."

"This isn't fair," she said through gritted teeth, looking up at him.

"I know," he replied, and his expression softened. "But we must make do. There are people far worse off than we. We have food, and shelter, and friends to confide in. In time, the Circle will become your new family. And as part of our family, there are rules you must learn to abide by."

"I'm not following your stupid rules. I don't want to be here."

"You don't have a choice."

Eira looked away from him with that masterfully stubborn expression children excelled at. He had not known her long, had only seen glances of her in the past week, but she had always been moving, buzzing with energy. And yet now she stood so still, curled into herself, and even with his feeble knowledge of her character, he knew such a state was unnatural for her.

There was no fear in her eyes, not like the night she had arrived, and yet he felt unnerved. Her demeanor was one of a person who felt entirely alone, a mirror of hundreds of apprentices before her, and it made Irving's heart ache with cruel nostalgia to see it yet again.

He folded his hands on top of his desk. The older the child was to arrive at the circle, the more difficult it was to integrate them. It was obvious Eira had already formed her own mind, her own ideals, her own desires and fears, and she understood the situation she was in. Memories of the outside world would always be fresh in her mind, and she would long for it, and those she had left behind.

And that was dangerous. Her failure to comply with Circle rules was bad enough, but an escape attempt could be fatal. He had seen it countless times before. But he had learned from his mistakes, and he would not let that fate befall Eira. He would protect his apprentices.

"There are possibilities. Ways you may leave the Circle safely."

Eira looked up. "How?"

"The Circle occasionally grants mages permission to leave on expeditions. Research assignments, healers for the wounded, aid in battles. Of course, these mages are guarded, and returned after their alloted time has elapsed."

Eira's eyes twinkled curiously, and Irving smiled.

"However," he continued, "These opportunities are only afforded to_ mages_, and well behaved mages, at that. You are an apprentice. As has already been explained, you must therefore pass your Harrowing. And for that, you must learn the properties of magic, study the vast schools of spells, transcend the physical plane and explore the Fade; and you must learn to defend yourself against its dangers."

Eira's eyes widened slightly, intrigued. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she leaned back casually. "Well, _that_ part sounds fun. But when will I be able to go through the Harrowing?"

"When you are ready. The speed in which you become so will be determined by you, and how fast you learn."

Eira considered this, then smiled. He had played to her weakness; her pride and self-confidence meant that she was certain she could achieve the task and be free from the Circle as soon as she pleased. She would eat their food and take any power they could offer her, then she would blitz through their Harrowing, go on one of these 'expeditions', overwhelm her guards and be free once again. It was a sound plan, she thought. _Well, better than jumping out of a window_.

With a confident smirk, Eira nodded her head. "Alright, I get it. I'll see what you have to offer. But I refuse to have that Sweener guy teaching me."

"You mean Senior Enchanter Sweeney," Irving corrected.

"That's what I said."

Irving shook his head amusedly. "Very well, I will assign you to another group. You understand what is required of you, and what is expected of you. You must excel and gain the Circle's trust. That means no more trouble-making."

"I know, I'll play nice—so long as you guys can actually teach me something useful."

"Rest assured, you will be in very capable hands. Now, you may go. I wish you luck in your studies, and I will be here should you need anything."

"Right," Eira replied, and nodded, moving backwards towards the door. "Well, thanks, Irv."

"First Enchanter, Irving," he corrected.

"That's what I said, Irv," she grinned, and slipped out of the room.

After taking a moment to shake his head and smile, Irving breathed deeply and picked up his quill.

"Now then," he said to the musky pile of scrolls, dipping the quill in a well of ink and feeling exceptionally pleased with himself. "Back to work."


End file.
